


Blue Lights on the Runway

by CaffeineChic



Series: Domesticated Sexay [25]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2225082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeineChic/pseuds/CaffeineChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Good morning."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Lights on the Runway

**Author's Note:**

> Moving all my fic to one place - originally posted 2009

Blue Lights on the Runway by CaffeineChic

* * *

Laura's fingers drummed against her stomach as she stood before the closet. Head tilted to the side, (yellow) coffee mug in her hand (base resting against her clavicle) as she surveyed the clothes hanging before her. Currently clad in only her underwear and tank top, she rose and lowered herself repeatedly on her toes as she continued to eye the (meagre) options before her.

(She lifted the mug to her lips, frowning slightly as she realised it was empty, lowering the still warm ceramic to rest against her skin again.)

Bill stepped up behind her, sliding a hand around her waist, tracing the line of her arm from elbow to fingers, locking in his as he stilled her drumming. (A kiss dropped from his mouth onto her shoulder.)

"Morning."

"Hi." She angled her neck, turning to move her lips against the (freshly shaven) skin of his jaw before turning back towards the closet. She leaned back into him, swaying softly, squeezing his fingers. (Her head rested against his shoulder, his neck, nuzzling gently. The buttons of his uniform pressing into her skin.) "I can't decide what to wear. Which is ridiculous seeing as I've been deciding between the same three outfits for four years."

(She rose up on her toes again, this time lowering so that her heels rested on the toes of his boots, the side of her head sliding along his face as she repositions. His mouth found her temple, kisses, arm tightening around her waist, the other hand grasping her hip.)

"Wear that white shirt, the wrap one."

"Hmmm, I was going to wear pants. That goes better with a skirt."

"Oh. Really?"

"William Adama!" She laughed gently. (His fingers grasped her firmly, keeping her on his toes, her giggles vibrating through them both.) "You could just say 'Laura, wear a skirt today so that I can ogle your legs during the meeting.'"

"I do not ogle your legs during meetings. I ogle your legs when we're at home."

She laughed again and spun on tiptoes to face him, about to reply when he waltzed forward, dancing her backwards until she came into contact with the wall inside the closet (clothes pushed aside, clearing the way), his fingers pushing the hem of her tank up in search of more skin. "Morning."

"You said that already."

" _Good_ morning."

"I think it’s about to...."

She spoke the _be_ directly into his mouth as his closed over hers. His tongue found hers as it still attempted to form words (trying, failing, finding this new assignment instead). He stroked the vowels and consonants from the length of her tongue, lapped at the words that fell apart in her mouth (supplanted by hums and moans and sounds without letters).

He kissed her amid the shirts and pants and skirts and boots; uniforms, heels and robes. (Mixed not divided, her blue shirt hanging between his dress greys and workout pants.) His hands climbed the notches of her spine, the tank rising with his movement. She repositioned herself on his boots (toes on toes) and rose further up his body, arms traversed around his neck (the mug still in hand, resting now against his back), pulling him closer, tighter (a sleeve from a hanging shirt brushed along her shoulder, startling her briefly; she kissed him deeper).

He broke away from stealing her breath in order to catch his own. Her mouth found his cheek, her breath heavy as she placed open-mouthed kisses everywhere she could reach (toes on toes, she rose higher, kissed his forehead). Her new height offered new access – he kissed the underside of her jaw, down her throat (she tilted back, both grasping tighter to keep her balanced). He bit down where neck met shoulder, with enough pressure that pleasure met pain. The spike of delectation shooting through her veins unfurled her fingers from the mug. It fell, striking the floor (chipped not broken, cracked but still usable), startling them both.

“Oh, frak.”

“Just a mug, Laura.” (His mouth already aiming for her throat again.)

She tried to speak (his lips, his tongue – on target). “No, I mean… (a gasp, she pressed forward)… the, the time…. Gods, _there_ …. You’re going to be late.”

“Very.” (Hands fitting along her body, scaling down her back, fingers dipping beneath the fabric of her underwear.)

She giggled (half humour, half arousal), dislodging herself from his feet and pushing him back in one move (she wobbled slightly, legs undone through his ministrations). “Hold that thought, Admiral. If you’re not in CIC in 5 minutes they’ll look for you. And whatever you were planning on doing with those 5 minutes (she stepped forward, on her own toes, a whisper in his ear)… can wait until tonight when we have more time.” (A kiss to seal her words into his thoughts.)

He stole another kiss before bending to pick up the mug, handing it to her, fingers grazing her skin, eyes locking with hers. (They stilled, they held, they swayed towards each other.)

(She caught herself an inch away, giggled again.) “Stop! You have to go, I have to get dressed.”

He sighed, knowing she was right. “Alright, alright.” He stepped away, headed for the hatch – going now or never leaving. “I’ll see (all of) you tonight.”

She wiggled her fingers at him in goodbye, turning in the closet in which she still stood. She reached for her choice of outfit. Decision made.

White wrap shirt.


End file.
